Chapter 18
Prison must have made him as crazy as a rabid fox. Rafe slammed his fist against an aspen. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
A virgin, for God’s sake.
And Randall’s daughter!
He slammed the other fist into the tree, feeling the jolt up through his wounded arm. He wanted to hurt. Hell, he should be shot.
He couldn’t undo the last few minutes. The sickening fact was, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
But, Christ, the complications.
Rafe relived every unbelievable moment of pleasure, the tender strokes along his body. No one had ever touched him like that, and despite his angry words he knew that what had just happened had nothing to do with Jack Randall.
No one could fake that glow in her eyes, or her reaction to his lovemaking.
Lovemaking. He’d never thought of coupling like that before.
It had always been a purely physical act, a release, nothing more.
He’d never made love, or even tried, with Allison, believing that an officer and gentleman just wouldn’t do that.
And he had tried damned hard to be both.
It did no good to tell himself he could stay away from Shea. He hadn’t managed that feat before; he sure as hell couldn’t do it now. She was like rain to his parched earth.
Rafe swallowed. He almost believed he was being offered a choice: vengeance or love. But then reality set in. He would always be an outcast. He could live like a hermit, always wearing gloves, avoiding army posts or anyone who might know him. He couldn’t do that to a wife or child.
A child. He closed his eyes again. What if …?
Unexpected pleasure streaked through him, followed by unbearable loneliness. He shuddered when he thought Shea might one day have to do what her mother had done: lie to protect her child against a father she thought would bring shame to that child.
Shea had to understand that.
She had to leave. He suddenly had an inspiration. He would offer her a trip back to Boston. He certainly could afford to do it with Randall’s money. Ben could escort her to Denver, bypassing Casey Springs. In exchange, she would agree to say nothing about Ben and Clint. Surely, she would accept.
He remembered Clint’s warning. Rafe would be gambling with Clint and his brother’s lives. But Rafe knew deep in his heart that she would keep her word.
He turned around and started back, feeling as if a ton of weight clung to each boot. He couldn’t bear to have her around him; he couldn’t bear to have her gone.
Jack Randall was dirty, tired, and despairing. He had found no trace of his daughter, Rafe Tyler, or the outlaws.
He’d been out three days, used up what few supplies he had taken. But he might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack. He had no choice now but to go to Russ and give him at least part of the truth.
His stomach heaved whenever he thought of his daughter in the hands of a man who hated him. Hated him justifiably.
He deserved anything Tyler planned, but his daughter didn’t.
And now McClary was starting anew a path of violence and deception that Randall could no longer tolerate.
He had done nothing to prevent murder when McClary returned.
Backbone, he’d discovered, was not easily built after years of avoiding consequences.
But now his daughter’s life was at stake. He had to do something.
He reached the ranch and started for the barn. Where there had been thirty hands, only ten still remained when he’d left. God knew how many there were now.
A cowhand, who’d been at Circle R for three years, was leading out a horse. “Came in for a fresh horse,” the man said.
“Anyone here?” Jack asked.
“Mr. McClary is inside the house,” the hand said, “but everyone else is out.” He hesitated, then added, “Another miner was killed, apparently a few days ago. Someone just found him.”
Jack felt the knot in his gut tighten.
The cowhand cleared his throat. “Three more men left,” he said. “I’ll have to leave, Mr. Randall, if I don’t get paid.”
Jack nodded. “I understand.”
The cowhand turned his horse and rode away.
Jack watched him go. The money didn’t matter anymore. He would lose the Circle R, one way or another. He was resigned to that.
The question now was what else would he lose.
The daughter he’d never known he had and now wanted desperately?
His life? His freedom? He had already lost what little self-respect he had regained.
He had lost it the moment McClary had reappeared and reminded him of the past, the second Randall had acquiesced to his demands, knowing it meant murder.
Randall rode up to the ranch house, dismounted, and tied his mount to the hitching post. He had something to do, and he had to do it while he still had the courage.
He knew what Sara had thought of him, even apparently to her death.
He couldn’t bear to think how his daughter would react if she knew he was involved in the murder of innocent men.
If she still lived …
He buried his head in his hands for a moment, trying to think. He had to get help to find his daughter, and he also had to stop McClary. Even if he went to prison, he had to stop him.
“Sara,” he murmured hoarsely. “What should I do?” He knew what she would have said. He should saddle a fresh horse, go after Russ, tell him everything. But then he thought of Shea, who looked like Sara. His daughter.
He knew suddenly he couldn’t tell Russ the truth. He couldn’t let his daughter know what a despicable man her father was. Maybe later, when she had learned to like him a little. A week. A month.
Perhaps he could convince McClary to leave this territory. He swallowed. The weakling’s way out.
But a way out, just the same. Then he could tell Russ that Tyler was just a man bent on revenge. It would be his word against Tyler’s, just like before.…
He doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach on the ground. He rose unsteadily. McClary first. Then he would figure the rest. He put his hand on the butt of his gun, trying to reassure himself. He knew how to use it. He was neither fast nor accurate, but McClary didn’t know that.
Determined, he headed into the ranch house and found McClary in his office, going through his books with a glass of whiskey in his hands.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you went looking for a daughter,” McClary said with a smirk. “Didn’t know you had one, you old fox. Is she pretty?”
Jack stiffened. He should have known McClary would have heard something. “You heard wrong,” he said. “I had business in Casey Springs.”
McClary raised an eyebrow. “That so? Trying to raise money?” He looked down at the open books. “I’ve been thinking. Your books here … they don’t look so good. I might consider a partnership.”
Distaste and anger became rage. Reason started slipping away. He had been a con man, a thief, never a murderer. But now he could easily kill McClary.
“No!” he said.
“You have no choice.”
Quietly, Randall said, “You’re going to leave.”
McClary laughed. “Why would I do that?”
Randall’s hand went to the butt of his gun. “Because I’ll tell the sheriff you’re responsible for those murders.”
“You aren’t going to do that,” McClary said with absolute certainty.
“I’m going to do more than that,” Randall retorted with reckless bravado. “I’m going to tell him the truth about Rafe Tyler, about who really planned those robberies.” He was bluffing, pure and simple, and he hated the small quake in his voice. He might not be a killer, but he knew McClary was.
McClary merely shrugged. “You’ll be condemning yourself.”
“You condemned me to hell a long time ago.”
McClary laughed. “You didn’t object. And I didn’t see you turning down the money.”
“No,” Randall said, fighting down his self-revulsion. “I thought it would buy me back my wife. I was a fool.”
“You still are. A yellow-bellied fool,” McClary said contemptuously.
“No more.” Randall realized that his plan was not going to work.
McClary was not going to leave, not on his own.
That left only one alternative: to tell the truth and accept the consequences.
As devastating as the prospect was, he knew he could no longer allow McClary to continue killing, or risk his doing something to further endanger his daughter.
It was as if McClary suddenly understood something had changed. His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t be an idiot. You’ll hang.”
“I could go to prison. I’ll accept that. But I haven’t killed anyone.”
“No?” McClary said. “You knew what I was doing. You were a part of that robbery in Kansas.” His mouth twisted. “I’ll have them believing you planned everything.”
“I won’t let you kill anymore.”
“Hell you won’t,” McClary said. Lazily, he moved his hand to the glass of whiskey.
Randall’s anger conquered his fear. Meaning to scare McClary, he went for his gun. In a smooth movement McClary dropped the glass and swept his gun from the holster around his hip.
Randall felt the impact of the bullet. Pain swallowed him like a red tide, and he felt himself fall. He desperately tried to reach for his gun again, but his arm didn’t obey. And then his brain exploded into nothingness.
McClary watched as Randall fell to the floor, his head hitting the corner of the fireplace. Blood was spreading over his chest and the side of his head where it had hit stone.
Had anyone heard the shot?
He looked out and saw Jack’s horse. No other.
He went through Randall’s pockets, looking for money. Jack was bleeding profusely. He wouldn’t live long, and McClary needed to make this look like a robbery. He forced open a locked drawer in the desk and was rifling through it when he heard the sound of riders.
Dammit all to hell.
He looked at Randall and thought about putting another bullet in him, but the riders would hear it and stop his only avenue of escape. He had one chance, getting away before anyone discovered Randall’s unconscious body. He hoped Randall bled to death.